It is Memorial Day weekend and I am doing something untraditional. Cleaning my room. Yep yep. And, well, as most any time while picking up and through my sleeping quarters, I stumbled across some writings.
Thus I read instead of clean.
And the question is…why do I write? My work sucks! It is so full of flaws, you should have seen my face, wrinkled with disdain, snarling at those pages. I soooooo needed a red pen. The work would have been bloody with ink!
Honestly, I know why I write. I simply love it and can’t stop. But what do you do when all you can see is the mediocrity of your work?